


What's Left Unsaid

by VanessaQuietly



Category: Carnival Row (TV)
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, F/M, Fae Magic, Intimacy, More to the story, No Smut, Werewolf Senses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-13 09:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanessaQuietly/pseuds/VanessaQuietly
Summary: A retelling of the story with a few plot twists.





	1. Unspoken Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU scene between Portia and Philo

Taking in the scene, Philo crossed the room, slowly to his bed, his steps steady and tired. Portia had been lounging on the bed in her underthings and bloomers, long stretches of golden skin stood out from the cream of the corset. The coy smile playing on her lips quickly disappeared, as his eyes caught hers; his needs telegraphed to her – silently asking for comfort and quiet. She responded by both making herself smaller and reaching out toward him. He sat on the edge of the bed, away from her. He had a mere intake of breath before her hands were on him, first on his arms, then on his shoulders. Her forehead and cheek leaned in to touch him, almost a hug. 

Philo held himself rigid, away from her warmth. The moment stretched on with neither of them moving, just the short intake and exhale of breath. Philo felt it slowly. His breaths became longer. He listened for her; she smelled faintly of baking bread. 

“Let’s make a go of this, Philo.” Her words slipped out quietly, without hesitation, almost secretly. As if hearing her own words aloud shook her, her body quickly changed. Her head came up and her hands moved from his shoulders to neck to ear, gently urging him to look forward her.

Her next words came out as a tumble, “You could give up this room, or keep it. You could stay upstairs with me.” 

“We could,” she stopped herself. Then beginning again, she meekly ended it, “We could be together.”

Philo turned at her words, making eye contact for only a brief moment, before calmly placing his hands atop hers. He kissed each one before setting them in her lap. His own hands returned to his knees as he turned his face away again. 

“It wouldn’t work. You’re still young; you can have a family.” He started, and her hands quickly returned to his. It came out quietly into the stillness, “But not with me.”

The words hung there, both overwhelming and small at the same time. Portia said weakly, “I don’t understand.”

He almost whispered back, “me, too,” but instead cast his thoughts back to something that he did understand. Philo started in the place he regularly felt comfortable talking, his work as an inspector. Strangely, it also felt like the beginning.

“Dr. Morange is dead because he’s the one who did it to me. My headmaster is dead because he knew about it.” The words came out quietly, with little inflection, like lines of a prayer for repentance, repeated again and again in the search for greater meaning. 

“And she’s dead, too.” Philo stopped, breathing in the emptiness.

Portia moved away, her posture queer, turned slightly way, listening, but not understanding. Her face was in silhouette when she spoke, “You mean the Faeish woman?”

Philo did not turn toward her, but instead looked toward his hands, adjusting the bandage, taking in the bloodied stain on the cloth. “She was my mother.”

He felt her shifting on the bed, but she didn’t say anything. He didn’t move – not his body, not his head, not his eyes. His eyes stayed on his bandage, on his rough hands and scarred knuckles, but his focus was on her, trying to make sense of the shifting mattress. First her stocking feet, then her covered legs slide into the space beside his, their legs touching, thigh to thigh. Her gentle weight settled against his side, the mattress pressing them closer together than she may have intended. Still, Philo did not move; he waited.

“Are you sad?” Portia asked into the quiet.

His body flinched at the question – a small quake that unsettles the spirit but doesn’t move the body. His heart raced. He didn’t know. He pushed down the question and the unfeeling, and turned back to the issue at heart. “Portia, I’m half Fae.” 

The words continued to spill out, “I’m tainted. I’m a half-breed. I …” Shame filled him, but he couldn’t go on. His head moved and eyes glanced quickly to the side to see her reaction more clearly before he enforced his will once again, returning to look at his hands. His hands were clasped – either to give himself comfort, or in remembrance of days filled with prayers. Prayers meant to take away his sin. He closed his eyes as cold bitterness rose up in him.

Into this quiet turmoil, Portia’s voice filled the space, “Aye, you are. And you’re a good man, too.” 

She reached out her hand to cover his. “I was worried that you may not know,” and then after a pause, “It is sad to hear about your mother.”

Philo didn’t move or respond. His thoughts were slipped and squirmed around each other – with no sense or reason behind them. Unsettled remorse fought with shame, and argued against the comfort that Portia seemed to offer. It wasn’t right; she must have misunderstood. Without another thought, he lashed out, “Portia, I’m half Fae.” It came out as a rough growl, but as loud as a shout. Philo shot up and walked away from her, back to the water basin and mirror.

His back toward her and his hands held in tight fists, Philo leaned his weight on his fists, braced on both sides of the water basin. He clamped down on his feelings; pushing down the urge to break something. When the moment passed, he looked up to watch her through the mirror.

She hadn’t yet moved from the bed; she watched with her head tilted gently to the side and away, as if trying to hear something spoken quietly. Her gaze still adverted; she rose and took the two steps toward the door. Philo took a calming breath, closing his eyes. It would be over soon. Her hand grasped the handle. Instead, she secured the lock, and turned toward him. 

“I hear what you say, and I see you, Philo,” she started. She waited. When he looked up, she took a small step in his direction, and continued, “I’ve waited for you to tell me about yourself and your life. But you have never once asked about me, either. You haven’t heard my story or the stories of my people. I’m not from the Burg. There are many of us in the Burg with secrets and skills – even those that are now Burgish.”

She moved closer still. “Part Fae doesn’t mean you’re the lesser pieces of Fae and Burgish – you’re not missing parts.”

Keeping her hands behind her, she settled back against the wall, next to the mirror and wash stand. “I think you’re more. When two metals are forged – the outcome is unknown – but it can be stronger and different than either of the original parts.” 

Portia held his gaze. “I can feel you are different and very strong.” She looked away and seemed to blush, when she whispered, “It’s a sort of addiction to see that strength in you, and not reach out. I want to touch it, to find where it starts and what it does, but it’s part of you that you keep away.”

Portia smirked at her own words, “You’re a terrible mystery, and I very much want to touch you.”

Philo understood her words, but not her meaning. Most of her words were lost to his thoughts. He grasped on to the last bits and replied, “We touch. We’ve had relations for weeks.”

Portia sighed. “You allow me to touch your hands, but not your wrists. It instantly halts you. I think it reminds you of a punishment,” she shrugged and continued. “You allow me to touch your chest, and shoulders, as long as I don’t touch any part of your back.”

With a knowing smile, she finished, “Also, I think you would be ticklish if you let me touch your sides or waist.” 

“You’re also uncomfortable with me touching your head or ears.” More to herself, “It’s not a showstopper, but the closeness seems to bother you.” Philo watched her, the intensity returning to his eyes, as he studied her changed demeanor.

Without waiting for a response, Portia continued, “I’m neither a widow, nor a harlot.” Her hands brushed down her white underthings. They are plain, but not new, nor overly worn. The corset is simple, but of finer woven cotton. The simply embroidery across the bust was probably done by Portia, herself.

She waited while he continued to study her. She moistened her lips before she started, “I was a companion to a widower for a time. Marriage wasn’t an option, but when it concluded, he gave me money to start a life as an independent woman.” She nodded to herself, and then shifted her shoulders back, straighter than before. “I bought this house.”

Philo was stunned by the revelations; his mind churning over the details. Her words revealed her past – a past that fit her character and situation – but somehow it seemed to further obscure something she had said earlier. He felt sure that she gave one piece of truth away to hide another, more secret, part. The secret part drew him, and worried him. He couldn’t touch her, and she still hid her hands from him, leaving them nowhere to go.

Philo uncurled his posture from his hunch over the wash basin, releasing his fists and glancing at the bandage again, checking for fresh blood. He matched her posture, straight, with shoulders back. He met her eyes, “Portia, would you like to join me for dinner tonight?” It felt insignificant, but maybe it could be a new start.

Portia didn’t answer right away; he watched her eyes travel his face and he was unsure of what she would see. It felt like the usual harshness was gone and standing straighter had released some of the tension in his back and shoulders. He waited.

He watched a smile start small, then, spread to a grin, as she replied, “Thank you, Mr. Philostrate. I would like that.” Her smile got wider as she said, “Would you join me for tea this afternoon? Perhaps, somewhere private?”

Philo felt a smile start, as any remaining tension slowly drained from the room. With an mock frown, he replied, “I don’t know about that; I may be needed back at the station. Would you be agreeable to an early tea?”

Portia laughed at his charm, but she still didn’t move a muscle in his direction. “Would you come up to my room right now, and I’ll make you a lunch before you head back?”

With a deliberate slowness, Philo reached up to touch Portia’s face. His fingertips brushed a hair behind an ear before he stepped closer. She still hadn’t moved from the wall. He leaned in, hearing her soft intake of breath; he watched her eyes gently close. Philo’s lips were easily within reach of hers, but he paused. Eyes closed, feeling her closeness, he ran his hands down her arms until they disappeared behind her back. Gently he tugged them free. Pulling back a little, he brought each hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles before placing them on his face and pressing each to him. He moved forward to kiss her, catching her lips in his softly. Barely there, the kiss lingered, lips barely touching, but something was changing around him. Impulsively, he pulled back for a moment to glance behind him, an internal warning telling him he was being watched. Seeing nothing, he returned to Portia’s lips, tracing the line between her lips. Portia’s hands were careful – one was resting along his shoulder, her thumb slowing brushing the back of his neck, the other was still on the side of his face, where he had placed it. 

When he pulled away again to glance behind, this time taking a little longer to check the corners of the room, Portia pulled his head back to her, but didn’t return to the kiss. She lowered her head, leaving him only her forehead to plant another kiss. Her hand moved from his face, to his chest, to toy with the buttons there, and then, she just held her hand there in the space over his heart. “Philo, that uneasiness is me, or a part of me. It doesn’t have a name; I don’t have a name. I just am.”

Portia continued at almost a whisper, “I would show you, if you would let me.”

Her head came up, looking Philo in the eye, “Will you let me touch you?”

Without saying a thing, in one sweeping motion, Philo’s hand caught hers and pressed it to his chest, as he moved in for another kiss. He nodded his consent into her lips, taking the kiss deeper. He felt her body relax and lean into his; she kissed him back. 

The vague warning feeling became a prickling sensation that sent a chill down his back, but Portia had already undone the buttons on his shirt, and was working to push the shirt off his shoulders. His hands had traced her body and bottom through her clothes, but he had learned that it was best to allow her to remove her own underthings, with their ties, laces, and knots. The prickling sensation was still there, slowly it came to be less of a warning, and more an awareness. Calmness settled over him. He recognized it and trusted it. It was an awareness that he learned during the war – a way to watch his own back. 

She was hesitating over the best way to rid him of his undershirt when he quickly removed it. When her hands both returned to his skin, for an instant, the world shifted. Portia fell backward, to the wall; Philo caught her around the waist and himself with a forearm against the wall. Philo sheltered Portia with his body, his heart raced. Everything felt different. The “don’t get shot” awareness was back and it was stronger and different from before – flooding his system with new pieces of information, a breeze, a noise, the sharp concussion of air that proceeds a sound, the shape of the space around him and other things he didn’t understand yet. In a moment, Philo was sure it was “All Clear.” He wanted to explore all the information, and the mental flashes in his head, but Portia was in his arms. 

Comfortably caged by his arms, Portia’s hands moved down his bare crest, thumbs brushing across his flat nipples, and lower, fingertips fanned out to gently trace ribs, then, moving down his sides. Philo’s abs contracted instantly, a flash went through his body, ending with a brief twitching of his wings, if there were there. 

“Portia!” Philo whispered, “I am ticklish. Please don’t.” Instantly, Portia went quiet, her hands thankfully still. Philo shrugged his shoulders, ridding his mind and body of the tickle, and he felt a resulting flutter at his back, and then stillness again.

“Wow.” The small sound from Portia had his attention, and a resulting pulling sensation along his spine. “Philo, wow, you have wings.” Portia stated with authority, but then confusion came over her face. “You feel them – but they’re not there.”

Philo pulled back a little, to see her face, his brow furrowed, studying her. Portia’s eyes were unfocused and her face lax, as all her attention was somewhere else. After a few moments, the life returned to her face, her eyes smiled, “You truly are beautiful.”

Philo wanted to relish the warmth and acceptance, but his mind demanded clarity. “Portia, how do you know that?”

Portia didn’t hesitate to answer, “Well, that’s it. It’s me. I feel every sensation you feel, and the impulses that drive us.” There was a small hitch in her voice when she continued, “It’s a harlot’s trick. If you let me, we can relive a memory, or make a dream real.” 

Her words reverberated through him, and what he wanted instantly put itself in the forefront of his mind. There was only one night he would live forever; there was only one face he searched for in his dreams; but revisiting that thought brought an overwhelming heaviness, regret, and longing. 

“Oh, Philo,” he heard the deep sadness in her voice and knew he didn’t need to say anything. He looked away, his jaw set, fighting back to calm. He leaned back to take a step away from her, when Portia surged forward to catch him, her hand encircling his wrist. 

Portia fell forward, like receiving a punch to the stomach, or as if she would get sick. Philo froze at the freefall of images in his mind, his hands bound behind his back, as the Martyr had been bound; on his knees paying for hours, his shoulders aching. The bile rose in his throat and memories threatened to overcome him. Grasping for control, it came out, “Portia, No!”

The words rang out just once, but the force of them echoed. It was almost as if he could hear Portia echo, “No.” Then, over the next few moments, more echoes came back; each was a lower pitch than the last, perceived as a brief pulse in the air. He didn’t understand how he felt them but each pulse was different, not an echo, but others’ voices repeating, “No.” 

Philo wanted to turn toward the window and look for these echoed voices, but when he moved, he caught sight of Portia, still hunched over, with her hand over her mouth. Impulsively, Philo scooped her up in his arms. He carried her to bed. He laid her down, and sat down, too. When his nerves settled, he found himself once again with his hands clasped together in mock prayer. Behind him, he knew she stirred. She had turned her head and her gentle, warm breath now came in his direction. He had no control over the brief flutter in his back. He smiled when he felt the first whisp or tickle that was Portia. 

He felt the muscles pull and move; his wings would now have been high on his back, in what felt like a listening position. He knew her hand moved toward him, silently and slowly. She was giving him time to withdraw consent. Her fingertips first touched his spine, low on his back; careful not to tickle, she placed her hand, palm-flat along the indent with her fingertips below where the scars started. 

“Philo, did you know that it glows a bit? Where your scars are and where the muscles all pull and bunch? You glow.” Philo could hear the smile in her voice. 

Philo turned with a small smile. He slowly lowered himself to stretch out on his side on the bed. Looking down on Portia, a relaxed smirk still on his face, Philo said, “Are you OK? You’re not hurt or anything.”

Something in his manner made Portia smile wide and carefree. “I’m fine. You know, I would love you forever,” she declared. But she wasn’t done, and her voice quieter, “If if it weren’t for your girl.”

“Your heart is truly set on her.” Philo watched as Portia began to reach out her hand again, but then let it fall to the bed cover. 

Looking away for a second, Portia continued, “I feel a fool, thinking that I was needed, or you needed help. I just wanted.” With a deep sigh, “I just wanted you, and I’m sorry.” 

After a break, she continued, “You know about your voice, too. You’ve known for a long time.” Philo didn’t need to help, she was following the clues, same as he had done. 

“The Faeish woman, your mother, was a singer. I think she could enchant with her voice. It’s no wonder she was so popular.” Portia smiled at the thought, and continued. 

“Horatio Spurnrose was quite taken with her; we relived their time together on occasion.” She slapped her hand on her mouth. A horrified expression crossed her face the second it was out. 

Philo chuckled at her expression and her discomfort, but didn’t comment. Instead, he said, “Our lives are connected in strange ways.”

She looked back at him more directly than before, “Do you control it all the time?”

Philo, started to nod a short “No,” but also added aloud quietly, “It’s hard to talk about.”

Portia nodded in agreement, “Truly.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU meeting between Philo and Darius in the Guardhouse.

Philo spared a glance for the sky, not allowing himself a moment’s pause. A short burst of rain had cleared the air for a short time, and the color was brighter than usual, but the moisture had also released the long held foulness of the dirt and dust covering the cobblestones. Within two strides of stepping through the boarding house door and into the street, Philo was coughing at the stench of the blend of animal excrement, piss, and mud. Philo never broke stride. He fought back the cough with a robust throat clearing, and then let the congestion build a bit. It kept the smells at bay. Until the autumn coldness settled in, the muddy street would reek of a festered wound. Cutting through the crowd, he headed toward the rail line and the Burgish Guardhouse.

Darius paced the stark prison cell, once, twice, waiting for Philo to say something. Three strides brought him to the roughhewn back wall; another three returned him to the inner wall and cell door. Where other prisoners had a wooden door with a small window, Darius’ had been replaced with a barred gate, removing any privacy, but it ensured no hand nor claw escaped the cell. Stopping and turning to the bars to watch his friend, Darius’ patience at its end, and he barked, “Out with it, Philo.”

Philo mumbled, half-heartedly, “I just need a place to think.”

“You’re thinking penitentiary – but I’m still here, in military custody.” With a short nod and grandiose hand gesture, he continued, “Thanks to you, I’m not dead.” Darius ended it with a brief smirk before noticing that Philo was still adrift in his own thoughts.

When Philo doesn’t respond, Darius stopped his theatrics and waited. After a pause, he replied, “Then, it’s happened.” Then, he sat down on the edge of the cot. Thoughtfully, he said, “They know.”

Startled from his thughts, Philo looked up at Darius and frowned, “I told Portia, but she said that she already knew.” He turned away, looking to start his own pacing, “How could she have known?” Turning back to his friend, “How did you know?”

Darius breathed in deep, his nostrils flaring. “I told you before, the wolf fades slowly; and the heightened senses linger for days now.” 

Taking a measured breath, Darius continued, “I didn’t know at first. Scents are layered, one masking the next – but in the war, being with you a long time, and sometimes alone – there was only one conclusion left.”

Philo was following this closely, watching his friend through the bars. Darius finished, “But back here in the Burg, with all the smells – the factories, the street, the people - I think you may be truly camouflaged from most.”

Darius started, “But you have had intimate conversations with her,” letting the words trail off.

When Philo looked up suddenly, Darius laughed. “Yeah, I know.” Darius laughed and looked away, he continued, “But I’m sure everyone, Burgish or not, knows that particular smell.”

Philo huffed a small laugh, “So, how did she figure it out?”

Darius got small, thinking.

Philo paused ready to say something, but hesitating. He scooted a his small stool closer to the door and leaned in. “She’s not what she seems. She implied that many of the Burgish are not what they seem.”

Darius continued the thought, as he often did, “If not what they seem, then what are they?”

Both men stopped to consider the answer.

Darius’ thoughts circled back to Portia, his chin and nose drifting up in a telling way. “You were with her today?” Philo nodded his answer.

Darius leaned close to the bars and softly added, “She’s not Fae.” Philo looked up with a small half smile, and agreed, “she’s not fae.”

“Will she say anything?” Philo nodded his reply, _“No.”_

“Even when you break her heart?” Darius’ condemnation was evident, and his gaze bore into Philo’s, waiting. Philo dropped his head and eyes. He had no response. He felt he had already broken her heart, even before he knew he had it. The lengthening silence held a lingered coldness.

“Did you know that wolves mate for life? It’s the oddest thing, confronting the fact that part of me may already be bound.” Darius mused aloud. He continued, “Not that it would do me any good in here.”

While Darius was talking, Philo’s focus on the coldness had shifted to the space around them. He let his awareness drift, being both here in his five senses and in the other. His pulse quickened, as it did in the war – both experiences were so closely entwined – it was hard to distinguish them. His back itched, from a light sweat, and from the imagined gun sights trained on his back. He needed to know he could trust it. He needed to know more. 

Both Philo and Darius sat in the quiet, their near daily conversation coming to its natural end. Philo looked up quickly at Darius, who was looking away. A concussion that wasn’t a noise brushed across his skin, alerting him to what was next. Then, the smallest sound told him the outside door was unlocked by the guard. At the small draft the door caused, Darius caught the scent and looked up sharply and toward the door. Once he turned, Darius saw Philo watching him.

Darius chuckled, “Interesting trick.” Darius moved his hand to this mouth, muffling his voice from carrying down the hall and toward the guard. “You knew before I did.”

With their privacy coming to a quick end, Philo was careful with his next question. “Is there any outward tell?”

Darius frowned at first, then his eyebrows shot up, genuinely surprised. Shaking his head, “You don’t know?”

Those small words ripped though him, anger and shame rose up, fighting his composure. His right hand formed a quick fist before he ducked his head to correct his hat. Leaning forward, head down, Philo started to rise from his stool. 

Darius acted quickly, his fingers shooting through the gate. “Stop! You’re angry. I’m sorry.” 

Darius moved closer to the gate and continued softly. “No, there is no tell a Burgish soldier would spot. What little more I know isn’t something that comes and goes. It’s part of you always – an essence -- a scent that different from the variety of sweet and sour of the Burgish.”

“Philo, the Fae and Burgish can’t smell it, but I suspect the Faun can. As for any others,” Darius trailed off, and ended with a shrug.

Both sat in silence for another minute. “You’re the only reason they keep me alive. I would always protect you and what I know.” 

Philo held his friends gaze and nodded. He left it unsaid; the sentiment was returned every day, when Philo arrived at the Guardhouse. He knew the names of the guards, and made sure each had heard of his continued interest in the prisoner. Each knew his rank in war, and in the Constabulary. Each had heard that Darius was not to be moved without his notification. Technically, he had no authority, but his presence every day said differently.

As Philo turned to leave, Darius called out, “Stay safe.”

**Author's Note:**

> very nervous about posting this
> 
> Hoping to get to the end of the season in five chapters and take a shot at the next part of the story.


End file.
